


A Fire In His Hands

by emptyque



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Modern Retelling, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptyque/pseuds/emptyque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Richard II</i> retold in a totalitarian Baathist regime in the Middle East, a continuing series<br/>(I had a prompt "Richard II in a modern setting." Somehow it became this.)</p><p>Richard is a young president in a pseudo-democracy--a position he only secured due to his political family. But he has little mind for politics beyond his own self-preservation.  His cousin Henry Bolingbroke wants to purge the government of all corruption and show the world that their nation is capable of true freedom and liberty...that is until Richard reprimands him for his inquires; then Bolingbroke's quest for reform becomes threatening to the heart of Richard's government.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: It should go without saying, but I want to make it clear that the political views of the characters do not reflect those of the authors. I was interested in exploring the mindset of politicians in what is clearly an oppressive regime without judgement from an intruding authorial hand, which I think Shakespeare often does, though in a political system that is so far removed from our modern world that it is hard for us to relate to the structure of power. And on my original point, I also don't believe that dictators are inevitable or necessary in any region of the world, even if the dictators themselves like to think so.

President Richard Plantagenet stood hall outside the cabinet meeting. Even through the closed doors, he could hear his cousin Henry Bolingbroke’s wolfish shouts. He must be up to trouble again.

“ _Give your cousin a spot in your government_ , they said. _He’s also a grandson of our glorious father_ , they said,” Richard muttered in a high, sarcastic voice.

“Was that a remark about me I heard?” Richard’s chief-of-staff Aumerle was coming down the hall. Despite the oppressive heat, Aumerle always looked crisp in a navy, European bespoke suit, which so nicely offset the rich chocolate brown of his eyes.

Richard smiled. “Not you, cousin. I mean the rest of this proverbial nest of vipers. Though if there is one thing we never do again...”

“Say no more.” Aumerle put up his hands. “Shall we enter, Mister President?”

Bolingbroke’s voice still boomed through the walls, punctuated by his fist pounding the desk.

“Drat, I was so hoping our little Hen would wear himself out. I suppose we’ll see what his complaint is today.” He smoothed his uniform one more time before Aumerle opened the door.

Henry Bolingbroke barely raised his eyes towards the president when he entered, and he certainly didn’t close his mouth. The object of his tirade seemed to be secretary of war Mowbray, who watched Henry with a stoic sneer. 

Bolingbroke was the young foreign affairs secretary who had been photographed with Mahmoud Abbas and was only ever seen wearing sandals from a well-known Union factory, which had endeared him to both the anti-American faction within the government as well as leftist urban youth. Despite careful monitoring from Richard’s secret police, there was no established link between Bolingbroke and the subversive organizations that mentioned his name in their online presence. 

Bolingbroke slammed his fist again. “This is the type of tyranny we cannot stand for if we intend to grow our nation into a global power. Or would you rather end up like Egypt, huh? Does Libya sound like a good time to you? All our beautiful, modern cities bombed by fat American pigs, guzzling down their Coca-cola as they push the button--then, there goes a school with a hundred bright shinning children, there goes a gold-spired mosque glorifying Allah--that is what happens to venomous, corrupt governments in our part of the world, and I for one won’t sit back and--”

“Enough,” Mowbray, whose scowl had been deepening throughout Bolingbroke’s speech, finally spoke. “I can bear your slanders, but I won’t allow you to use our children and the name of our God as pawns in your political game. I bled for those children and our God during the 2004 revolts, when you, Bolingbroke were hiding from the fight in a Lebanese university.”

Bolingbroke narrowed his cloudy, mysterious eyes. “Yes, you bear my accusations like an ass, despite being what you are--a yipping American lapdog.” He leaned his body forward over the table as he spoke, hard and tall like a lightning rod so that he seemed to be gesturing towards Richard, despite never taking his eyes off Mowbray.

The president cleared his throat. “Gentlemen?” he said, and eyes moved towards him. He made a mental note of who was too slow to redirect their attention to their leader. His secret police had often confirmed that such innocuous signs of loss of respect often have deeper, more dangerous roots.

Richard continued, “Gentlemen, you speak in abstractions. Though your ability to fling insults rivals street urchins, tell us plainly, cousin--what is the charge you are leveling against Secretary Mowbray?”

Bolingbroke lowered himself into his seat, but his head remained tipped in the air, and with a grin he said, ”A thousand apologize Mister President. I’m ashamed to admit I have the bad habit of losing my temper in the presence of traitorous killers.”

Mowbray made a move to speak, but Richard waved him down. “To the point, cousin.”

“As you know, Secretary Mowbray controls the distribution of all our munitions. An important position given the importance of arms and defense to secure our country’s stability against the tide of religious and ethnic sectarianism destroying our Arab brothers around the world. But has Mowbray kept his sacred duty to bar our nation from civil strife? No, he funnels our arms and equipment to the America-lovers in the Free Syrian Army--insurgents with no respect for legal governments who ope the floodway of terrorism and civil blood.”

Not a bullet could leave the country without the knowledge of the chiefs of Richard’s secret police--Bushy, Bagot and Green. If they thought it was wise to hedge their bets in Syria, Richard couldn’t blame them. He didn’t think American puppets couldn’t be any worse for regional security than the third option. 

Bolingbroke continued, “And furthermore, I declare, and will prove as much before a special hearing of the People’s Council, that traitorous Mowbray did plot General Gloucester’s assassination--slicing his white throat from end to end in an act of unquenchable barbarism, watering our dusty soil with the blood of our own people. On my honor, I will bring this savage to justice before our peers, or may my reputation never recover.”

Richard wore a mask of calm though he could feel his stomach tightening. Nobody dared mention Gloucester’s assassination before him. But, as the many faces of the cabinet awaited his response, he kept his voice light and said, “How resolute a man! And you, Secretary Mowbray, can you answer this charge?”

Mowbray’s sun-beaten face glowed red with anger. “Mister President, cover your ears while I tell this abortion of your aunt what shame he and his lies bring to Allah and to your family name.”

“Good Mowbray,” Richard said. “We are appointed officials in a fair and just democracy. Though he is my cousin, his citizenship is your equal. We won’t abridge your speech like a tyrant or a king.”

Mowbray pulled himself up by his slouching, chubby shoulders and tried to meet Bolingbroke eye-to-eye. “I never funneled munitions of any sort to the FLA, as the only thing that makes me sicker than you, Bolingbroke, is the thought of anti-government insurgents making children refugees. I had a surplus of rifles and rounds of ammunition and I supplied those, as we agreed, to president Assad's army. And as for your second charge, I don’t know how even a mind as devilish as yours could invent such a cruel slander, because if even the germ of a thought to harm good Gloucester ever entered my head, may Allah strike me dead. But I will defend my name before the People’s Council, and since unlike you I am a civilized man, may the cloud of dust you kick at my reputation settle on yours instead.”

“Why,” Richard said, “there must be some other way for two such great men to work out this grievance privately, rather than dragging it before tired old bureaucrats whose hearing may go on endlessly.”

Mowbray turned up his nose. “This petty little man has insulted me and my name here before all the cabinet, and I won’t be satisfied until an investigation overturns each of his devious falsehoods.”

Damn that dull, bull-headed Mowbray, Richard thought. He would allow Gloucester's death, which he knew nothing of, to be pulled into the public arena to protect his precious ego from insane rants.

“What about you, cousin. Will you drop these accusations?”

“Am I to sit here and govern our nation in a fair and honest way, while next to me sits a traitor, a murderer and a lover of American imperialism? Do you think I have no backbone? No pride in my country or my race? I’d have to be as unfeeling as a clod of dirt to leave our people’s security in the blood-stained hands of such a man.”

Richard sought the eyes of Aumerle, who blinked slowly and nodded. Richard knew then that there was no way out, for now.

“We present here are the commanders of this needy land, not squabbling lawyers arguing suits, but since you gentlemen will not be moved, the special hearing will be heard after Ramadan when the People’s Council reconvenes.” Richard lay his folded hands in his lap to hide their trembling. “Be ready, for your image in our people’s eye depends on it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Richard Plantagenet was a young leader of a young country. His grandfather, Edward Plantagenet, had been in the revolutionary vanguard in the global decolonization movement following the second World War, and shortly thereafter became the infant nation-state’s first president--and for the next 30 years, it’s only president. He fought off counter-revolutionaries and Islamist fundamentalist, swiftly punished all ethnic and religious separatist, and held together a country made of dust and sand through the Cold War, through the rise of radical Islam, and through the pertinacity of certain Western superpowers.

The younger Plantagenet could see himself in the hard gaze of his grandfather’s statue that stood, a bronze titan, in the center of the capital, against the steel and glass skyscrapers his will to modernize had built. Both Plantagenet men had the same sharp cunning eyes and down-turned lips. And with the mustache that Richard had been cultivating, he was the ghost of his nation’s glorious father indeed, even if he wasn’t well-equipped in years. Sure, he hadn’t expected to become president so young, and wouldn’t have been if it hadn’t been for his father’s untimely death, but the ruling party still chose him as the best living representative of the revolutionary spirit. And as for years--anybody could gain those; all they had to do was live long enough.

Still, he knew his brilliant leadership relied on the wisdom of his secret police and most trusted advisers. And so, the morning after the disturbing cabinet meeting, he arranged a consultation in the courtyard of his palace. The met under a flowering date palm, sharing a light breakfast of sweet kanafeh and yogurt. Bushy, Bagot, Green and Aumerle huddled around small table that only took up one corner of the long, marbled patio. Their inward leaning posture and hushed voices told the servants not to interrupt to offer more sugar for their minty Moroccan tea. Richard had dressed fabulously, even for an early morning meeting, with a brocade velvet cape slung over one shoulder and a beret of matching royal purple.

“You must tread carefully,” Bagot said when Richard finished explaining the conflict between Bolingbroke and Mowbray. “He too is the grandson of our nation’s glorious founder, and his denunciation of American foreign policy resonates with our oppressed people.”

“And who does he think he is--a cabinet member--issuing press statements as if he were the head of state? Haven’t I also denounced foreign intervention in our region? Don’t my people live by _my_ words?” Richard’s voice could raise an octave mid-sentence when he was annoyed.

“Oh, of course, sir,” Bagot was quick to correct himself. ‘The thing about Bolingbroke is he is all words--pretty words that win a sort of shallow admiration from the youth. But he has not the will of action that you have, Mister President, and as the married men here know, the way to keep love is through actions, not mere words.”

Aumerle also felt the need to reassure his president. “I see no beauty in our cousin's blustering words. He’s like to a blind cock that never knows when to stop squawking.” He gave Richard’s hand a reassuring squeeze across the table.

“Still, Mister President,” Green spoke. “I fear an investigation of Gloucester's death more than the debatable fame of a minor politio. We understand why it had to be done, but political bloggers and the international press will twist this into another example of your so-called ‘tyranny.’”

“Gentlemen, I agree,” Bushy echoed. “Even mentioning Gloucester’s death before the People’s Council is like to revive interest in what’s now a forgotten scandal.” 

“Well, what can be done?” Richard said. He hoped another assassination wouldn’t be in order. As much as it gladdened his heart to imagine his cousin at the other end of a rope, the current predicament revealed they left too many loose ends.

“Richard’s advisers exchanged looks. “We ought to get Bolingbroke out of the way,” Bushy said.

“And into a grave, I hope,” the faithful Aumerle said.

“Out of the question,” Bagot said. “Too many citizens don’t see the wolf under the sheep's clothes. Send him overseas, preferably in a way that seems to compromise his popular positions.”

“Like, send him to the White House? Plaster his picture making friends with the American president on every newspaper across the country?” Richard was excited. 

“Precisely,” Bagot said. “Flatter him. Convince him it’s an act of emergency diplomacy that only his oratorical skills can handle. And in the mean time, we will have quietly jailed Mowbray without too much public outcry. And poof, this investigation will just disappear.”

Richard rose, feeling taller and stronger than he had since before this problem had reared its unseemly visage. “Gentlemen, I thank you. No president could lead a country so justly without minds such as yours.” Richard felt the morning sunlight enveloping the top of his head, and felt as though the earth itself was giving him the crown he deserved.


	3. Chapter 3

Henry Bolingbroke spent more time in his home office than in his bed--and this on top of cabinet meetings, addressing congress and the pressing, courting foreign diplomats and organizing his department. He rarely had a second to look in the mirror, but when he did, he saw the the dark bags gathering under his eyes, especially since he raised his case against Mowbray. At times, he feared his children might only remember their father as a whirling sandstorm, but it took a lot of work to accomplish anything with a government as corrupt as he knew his was. Extra care had to be taken to ensure money ended up in the right pockets, and it was easy to go over-budget when every man insisted on his cut. 

Which was why he was spending his Saturday locked in his office writing his opening statements for the People’s Council hearing. He needed to show the world that misappropriating funds and mysterious political assassinations were taken just as here as in any other modern democracy. But with the fragrant spring breeze blowing from open window, and the laughter of his sons in the garden below, it was hard to keep his focus.

He paced the room and read aloud what he had so far. “‘This earth of majesty this seat of Mars, this other Eden, demi-paradise, this...’ piece of shit.” He threw down his notepad and lit a cigarette. While he rubbed his temples vigorously, he inhaled deeply. And why were there still shrieking children?

He picked up his pen and tried to start again when there was a knock on the door. 

“What is it?” he snapped as he swung open the door.

It was his six year old daughter, Blanche. Her face went trembling and pale from her father’s tone, and she crept away from the door.

“Blanche, daddy’s sorry,” he knelt down and reached for her hand. “But you know about interrupting daddy while he’s at work.” He hated himself even as he said the words.

She let her father hold her hand, but shyly looked down at the floor. “But grandpa’s here, and he said for me to get you.”

“Grandpa should know better than to interrupt daddy’s work too,” Henry muttered.

“He said, he said.” Blanche was clearly trying to remember something that was beyond her comprehension. “He said it was about the People’s.”

The People’s Council hearing? Henry tucked his cigarette between his teeth and nearly ran down the stairs. He hardly remembered to pat his daughter on the head as he left.

His father, John, was waiting down in the parlor. He stood before the mantel, staring stiffly at the antique vases there, as if examining them for dust. In addition to being governor of the most oil-rich province in the country, John had more wealth than the federal government itself. Years ago, he had played an active role in petitioning the young president to pass more decision making to the elected council, but he later backed away from the capital. Today, he was dressed like any conservative country gentleman, in a beige thawb almost the same color as his creased face, and feathery mist-colored hair escaped from the corners of his red keffiyeh. 

“I see you've been in the capital too long,” he said when Henry entered the room, his eyes pointing to the cigarette in his son’s hand. “You’ll lose all the good morals we bred in you up north.”

Henry found an ashtray and put it out without comment. “And how are you father? You must have some urgent news to join me in my den of iniquities?” he said while trying to tug out some of the wrinkles in his blazer. 

“Sometimes a father wants to visit his heir. Sometimes a father wants to tell his heir to tread a little lighter.”

Cryptic language made Henry long for his cigarette. “This is about the hearing. Is it not?”

John’s facial expression gave away nothing, for at his age he could only hold on to one idea at a time. “You could offer me a seat you know, and not leave an old man standing like he’s a common beggar.”

“Yes, father,” Henry said with a sigh. “Sit anywhere you like.”

The old governor perched himself on the edge of the couch, managing to look just as hard and uncomfortable as he did while standing. Henry sat next to him, dutifully resting his hand on his father’s shoulder. 

“Now,” John said. “As I was saying, the hearing will not go forward.”

“What? You just told me to tread carefully?”

“Aye, if you don’t tread carefully, next time it won’t be me coming to tell you this, but the police instead.”

“Can you be more forthright? What’s the reason you think I should cancel the hearing?”

“I don’t ‘think’ you should cancel it. It is canceled. President Plantagenet called me himself to discuss it.”

Bolingbroke instinctively padded his pockets for his smokes, which he then remembered he left upstairs. “And I was afraid all the meals I missed the kids would be for naught when the council sided with Mowbray. Do tell, what reason did you have to void months of my work?”

“The president thought it best if we don’t line up regiments within the government.”

“But whose faction would he be on? I never could tell.”

“He’s our head of state, as Allah wills, and above such petty concerns.”

“Surely you can’t believe Allah would will us to put up with corruption and danger in our government.”

John raised his voice as if his son had made an accusation. “I obey all the laws in my country, as any god-fearing man would do.” Then in a lower register he added, “I pray you follow suit. Respect our leaders. Cease your inquiries.” 

“So, you want me to duck my head down and go back to work. Oh, won’t the cabinet be sniggering. ‘Looking at Henry fucking Bolingbroke who flings wild accusations, demands hearing then drops them. ‘”

“Language, my son. Lucky for you, I have a second part to my news. You won’t be facing the cabinet’s whispers. The president has assigned you a special post at our embassy in the United States.”

“That’s no honor, that’s exile!” Henry realized suddenly how threatening his investigations were.

“A six year assignment, he says,” John added. 

Bolingbroke punched the couch cushions beside him, but his anger softened when he saw the tears welling in his father’s eyes.

“Six years, I’ll be deprived of my child. And I agreed with the president it was well, if only to spare you from the troubles here, though without my looks my own life may be shortened twice six years.”

Henry squeezed his father’s hand, then stood up and paced the room. For once in his life, he fell mute.

“Have you no farewell words for the man who gave you life.”

Henry turned to see his father struggling to stand. He ran to his side and lent him an arm to grab onto. 

“Father, had I all the time and all the tongues of all the world, I couldn't rend my grief into proper speech. How can breath soar when a heart is weighted with lead?”

“It’s six years, my son. What are six years for a young man. They roll on quickly.”

“Six winters without our country warm embrace are redoubled in the cold winds of foreign shores,” Henry said, holding his father as he lead him to the door.

“Come, come. Had I your youth and cause, I would not stay.”

Henry sadly shook his head. He opened the door to see the spread of indigo sky stretch from the golden sand on the horizon humped with the capitals distant skyline. John mentioned something about the car coming by that would take him to the airport, but Henry kept absorbing the landscape of his country, afraid when he returned, her brilliant hues would be stained with blood.


	4. Chapter 4

The setting sun cast a red glare across Ricard’s pool. He watched from his seat in the shade as his young wife, Isabella, unwrapped her robe to reveal the knit yellow bikini she had recently ordered. She sat on the edge of the pool, then lowered herself into the water in one swift motion.

“Is it too cold?” he shouted.

“No,” she said, paddling out to the center. “It’s beautiful. Come on in.”

He shook his head.

“Richard,” she pouted.

He sighed as he untied his dressing gown. the cool evening breeze pricked his skin, but soon he felt as though his whole self had melted into the night. It was the first time in days the Bolingbroke fiasco was out of his mind.

He jumped in the water, close enough to splash Isabella. She squealed with delight.

“Ah, it’s the arctic in here,” he said, flicking her with water. “You liar!”

“I guess I just have colder blood,” she laughed. She reached for his arm under the surface. He instinctively recoiled from her tough, but her grip was fast and tight. Despite Isabella’s charm and sweetness, Richard never felt comfortable in her embrace.

In the doorway to the house, Aumerle’s form appeared.

“Cousin” Isabella said, sliding her body behind her husband’s and wrapping her arms around her neck. “I do wish you wouldn’t drop by unannounced. I’m not decent to see company.”

“My apologize, Mrs. Plantagenet. I just wanted to tell your husband that Bolingbroke’s flight has left, but I can go--”

“No,” Richard said quickly. “I’ll come out. Throw me a towel.”

Aumerle watched in silence as Richard quickly dried off and slid on his dressing gown.

“This isn't all business, is it?” Isabella said from the water. “You gentlemen wouldn't mind if I joined you after I've changed?”

“Of course not, queen of my life,” Richard said as he took Aumerle’s arm and lead him into the solarium.

“So how was our cousin, cousin,” Richard asked. He mixed two glasses of arak and water at the side table. “You saw to it that our little Hen has flown away?”

“I watched our little Hen, as you named him, strut and peck his way to the gate, but there I left him.” The two men clinked their glasses and wet their throats with the anise-flavored liquor. 

“And I suppose you cried to see the little birdie go?”

Aumerle snorted and nearly choked on his drink. “Don’t be ridiculous. Well, I suppose my contacts were rather dry, so perhaps I did grace our parting with a single tear.”

Richard wrapped his arm around Aumerle and swung him to and fro. “As you beautifully pontificated the aspect of your familial love,” he sang in falsetto.

Aumerle shook him off with laughter. “I could barely bring myself to say ‘goodbye’ the only good thing about him leaving being now he’s gone.”

“And now I have no cares,” Richard said and finished his drink.

“Now, I wouldn’t go that far, Mister President.” Aumerle’s sudden shift in tone was jarring to Richard. In a low voice he added. “Green’s given word of Al-Qaeda organizing near the border. We can’t ignore that cancer forever.”

“Let me for tonight,” Richard turned back to the side table and poured another drink. 

“I’m sorry to upset you.” Aumerle took the bottle from Richard’s hands to top off his own glass. As their fingers brushed, Richard looked up to see Aumerle’s face burning with embarrassment. 

“Its alright,” Richard said, lowering his gaze. “Let’s just have a seat and not think on it.” But even one mention of the terror had cast a gloom over the room. The sun was now completely set, and the low lights of the solarium bathed the room in inky blue. The wind blowing in from the opened door caused the crystals of the chandelier to jangle tunelessly. Richard tightened his dressing gown before he sat down on the sofa, and he held his own shivering arms.

“Don’t worry,” Aumerle said.”I’ll take care of that,” and crossed the room to shut the door.

Richard nervously chuckled. “Let’s shed this heavy mood. Surely you have something that can make me laugh.”

“Like Henry Bolingbroke’s face when I told him I’d drive him to the airport.?” Aumerle mocked a sneer with his lips pulled back to the highs of his cheeks, then rolled his eyes.

Richard forced a laugh, but the spirit of a just a moment ago was gone. Now the stupid threat of terror clouded his mind.

The door to the house opened and Isabella entered. She was wearing a long sleeved red tunic and slim black pants that exposed the white of her ankles and slender bare feet. The brightly patterned hijab wrapped tight around her face enhanced the sharpness of her feminine features, and when she raised the round moons of her eyes to Richard, he was reminded what a beautiful woman she really was. Her rouged lips fell open, but she hesitated to speak.

“Do you need a drink, my love,” he said. For some unknown reason, he felt guilty.

She shook her head. “I just got a call from our uncle, oh...your father, Aumerle.” She sat on the floor by Richard’s feet and rested her chin on his knee. “Uncle York said that his brother John is deathly ill. He thought we should visit while there’s still...while there’s still time.”

Her eyes were slick with tears, not for any great love between her and her uncle by marriage, the father of that canker Bolingbroke, but from the general tenderness of her heart.

But all the while Richard’s mind was working. He looked to Aumerle, longing for a moment to whisper his plan, but instead he coldly touched his wife’s cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

The Virginian summer air was as dog’s breath--hot, sticky and rotten, though with the smell of gasoline and sweating asphalt. Henry never thought he’d miss the unceasing Arabian sun, but at least the dry air had a sort of briskness. The reeking humidity was particularly bad in the center of the Kroger parking lot, where Henry now struggled with his groceries. He had just fumbled his keys out of his pocket when the alarm on his mobile began to ring. It was the sound he used to remind himself to prepare for _salat_. He’d have to drive quickly to make it home in time. He threw his bags in the passenger seat of his leased Nissan, and hit the long stretch of state road, crowded by strip malls, that led to his development.

The house he was renting in suburban D.C. was tiny and made of white clapboard, centered on a plain lawn of yellow grass. Early on, he stayed in a Washington penthouse, the same building where some senators stayed while congress was in session, but he wasn’t in the mood lately to deal with the bustle of city life. But even though his money didn’t stretch as far here, the clapboard house was well below his means. He thought of it as a penance for being foolish enough to believe he could fight his government with their own laws.

When he got home, he threw his groceries on the stained formica counter, and ducked into the bathroom to perform _wudu_. He tested the water twice with his fingers before plunging his hands in. Funny, he thought as he ran his wet hands around the back of his neck, he had never felt so devout when he was at home. Sure he, went through the motions--it was hard not to when the whole world stopped at the sound of _adhan_ \--but now, away from his home, it had more meaning, tethering him to his heritage even half-way around the world. He wet his face one last time, then lightly toweled off.

In the other room, he lay out the _saph_ , following the tape marks he left on the carpet to direct himself to Mecca despite the odd angle of the house.The rug was one of the few things he brought from home, and each time he unrolled it, a puff of his native air was released, though it seemed to be growing fainter, unlike his desire for home, as did his desire to end tyranny. But his mind turned away from earthly thoughts when he began his prayer, and for the next few minutes, fell in awe of the strength of God.

When he was done, he microwaved some rice and fried a side of lamb. All the windows of the house were closed and air was still and silent. After he ate dinner at the round table in the corner of the kitchen, he added his plate to the pile that was gathering in the sink. He was headed upstairs to brush his teeth and relax in bed with a book when his phone rang. It was his father. At home it was nearly 4 A.M., but old John hadn’t been sleeping. While Henry was at work, his father would leave rambling, paranoid messages on his voicemail. The doctors said his brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen. The family had set up care for him in Uncle York’s house, where there was room for medical staff to attend him in what were likely his last days.

And so, it was with a distressed heart that Henry answered the call. His father’s voice came muffled through the interference. “Listen unto me, I am a new prophet. The king, is lead by base flatterers. He may be a bright comet, but will soon fade into the night.” 

“Dad, dad, calm down.” Henry spoke loudly to overcome the static, but hopefully in a calm, non-threatening voice. “Who is this king? Can you tell me about him?”

“King Richard, of course.” He spoke with annoyance.

Henry remembered this from one of the delusional rants on his voicemail. He reminded himself that it wasn’t that crazy--his father was old enough to remember their nation’s last king, who collaborated with the British during colonial domination. Richard still used one of the royal palaces as his capital residence. Henry father and his uncle York occupied two others. 

“Is there something wrong, dad? It must be late--”

“How dare you talk to your superior officer that way! I ought to have you reported to general Glouster himself.”

Henry was left with the sinking feeling that his father had no idea who he was. He heard a woman’s voice in the distance. There was a bump as if the phone had been dropped, but after some muffled dialogue, she picked up the phone and spoke in a kind, but groggy voice. “I’m sure he would be sorry to wake you.”

Her voice sounded familiar. Henry wondered if he had spoken to this nurse before. “Isn’t he supposed to be on oxygen?” He asked rather briskly.

“Henry!” she said, and he now recognized the first lady’s voice.

“Isabella?” he said. “Are you staying with Uncle York?” He heard a new voice in the background and guess that a nurse had arrived.

“Yes,” she said. “Richard and I arrived this afternoon. We just had to visit Uncle John while there was still time.”

Henry, alone in America, had no response to this.

“About your father,” she continued, “yes, he is on oxygen, but he gets confused and starts pulling out the tubes.”

“Is he all right now?”

“Oh, I think he is drifting off. The nurse just upped his morphine. I can call you tomorrow and give you a report.”

“No, thank you,” he said harshly. “I’d rather talk to the doctor myself.”

There was a pause as she moved the phone from one to the other. “Yes, of course. Well, I’ll let you get on with it.”

Henry had hit end on his phone when he realized he hadn’t said goodbye.


	6. Chapter 6

Isabella listened to the ocean of static for a few seconds before she hung up. Though her brain was foggy with sleep, her heart was racing. She thanked the nurse who was re-tucking old John into bed and told her she’d look after him and let her know if he needed anything else.

She sunk into the chair beside John’s bed, observing the metronome of his breaths. She wished she could be angry at her for waking her with his shouting at his phone, but she knew her body was in a rapt and dreamless sleep, waiting for some call to be needed, eager to abandon the side of her husband’s icy body. Hearing her uncle’s incoherent noises, unconscious of any social regulation, echoing down the hall was the most exciting thing to happen to her since her wedding day. 

She remembered that night, after the ceremony, over a year ago now, carried into her new husband’s bedroom, which the servants had decorated with lilies and sprinkled with rosewater. He slid her from his arms and onto her feet in the center of the room, planted his lips firmly on the center of her forehead, and then wordlessly disappeared into the attached bathroom. Here, she was unsure what to do. Should she undress? She unwrapped her veil, at least, and held it in her quivering hands. As apprehensive as she was about the marital act, she longed to see the muscles of Richard’s exposed limbs, which had felt so firm and strong beneath her a moment ago. But when at last he emerged from the bathroom, he was wearing long blue pajamas. He skirted around the place where she stood frozen on the floor and headed straight to bed. 

“Good night, my love,” he said, looking at her briefly with a weak pitiful smile, and shut off the light. 

She changed her clothes in the dark, and, ignoring the moisture between her legs, crawled into the strange new bed and slept.

This pattern went on, and Isabella was unsure what she had done wrong. When she called her mother, she told her that Richard seemed uninterested in her, hoping she could provide some advice, but she only laughed and said it was normal for a young wife to desire her husband’s attention, but she should remember that the president was a busy man. Isabella knew that the situation was not normal, but she was too embarrassed to spell it out any further.  
Though perhaps she had no cause for complaint, for she did live in lavish palaces where she was free to swim or read all day. And despite being starved of her husband’s touch, he was generally polite to her and always kept her on his arm at political galas. 

She rubbed her hand incessantly as she stared into space. She’d never get back to sleep with her brain abuzz with unhappy thoughts. The door creaked opened, and in her agitation she jumped out of her seat. 

Her husband entered, his face somewhat perplexed to find her here. She cursed his red feminine lips that so nicely with his cleft chin--these made his abstinence all the more frustrating. 

“I was wondering where you got to,” he said. He looked at her but seemed reluctant to move from where he stood across the room.

She realized how gauche it was--her sitting in his uncle’s bedroom early in the morning, her black hair uncovered and mussed with sleep and her bare legs crossed prominently in front of her. Self-consciously, she hunched her shoulders forward, and the neckline of her loose nightgown slacked into a loose U above her breast.

“I hope you weren’t looking too long,” she said casting her eyes downward toward the small knuckles of her toes. “He needed some help...” she trailed off.

“Well, no,” he said. “I heard the old man grabbing, too, but after I left the room I ran into Aumerle. I guess he couldn’t sleep either. We talked shop for a bit...” Then it was Richard’s turn to trail off. “You can leave, you know. I’m sure they have people who can take care of uncle John.” He said this with more condescension than she knew he meant.

As if hearing his name, John rolled over in his sleep. His eyes suddenly opened--staring into Isabella’s face. His gray eyes seemed to look past her, but she could make out her own reflection meeting her gaze within his iris. “Pelican blood,” he said. His eyes shut again, his face relaxing back into unconsciousness.  
Richard laughed in the uncomfortable silence that fell over the room, but Isabella’s heart went wild in her chest. But the strangeness of the night, after so many tedious nights in the marbled walls of the presidential palace, had emboldened her spirit. 

“I think that old fool can look after himself,” Richard said. “But if you insist.” He turned to leave.

“Wait,” she said and leapt from her seat. With more awkwardness that she would have liked, she stood on her tiptoes to press her mouth against Richard’s lips. Whether it was from exhaustion, or the _arak_ she tasted on his breath, or something else, he didn’t pull away as he normally did. She cradled the back of his neck, feeling the tiny hairs along his spine, and wishing that she could melt into him.

She took her husband by the hand and coaxed him down the hall to their bed.


End file.
